"But the warrant is still valid, so I would not show your face in Nantes for a year or two if I were you."
"No, no. Be sure I shall give that fine city a wide berth in future."
"That would be wise, but I thought I should warn you."
" 'Twas most kind of you. Monsieur Fouché."
"Then there remains little more to be said."
"No; only for me to thank you again for having spent the afternoon here in order to warn me not to return to Nantes."
" 'Twas a pleasure," murmured the man in grey, but he made no move to get off the bed and continued to lie there propped up on one elbow with his head resting on his hand.
By the light of the candle Roger could now see his features clearly. He looked about twenty-four and was handsome in a way. His features were well cast though long and bony and the high cheekbones in conjunction with his deathly pale face suggested that, although tall and wiry, he might be delicate. The most disturbing thing about him was his hooded eyes and the fact that whenever he spoke he seemed to deliberately avoid the gaze of whoever he was addressing.
"Then if there is nothing else.." hazarded the Doctor suggestively.
Fouché's thin lips broke into a smile. "You seem very impatient to be rid of me."
"No, no, Monsieur, not in the least. But my young friend here and I made a change in our plans this afternoon. Big places like Rennes are no good for our business and we—well, we decided to push on to a smaller place to-night, and darkness is already falling."
"Indeed! You wish to get on with your packing, then. Well, do so by all means. I am quite comfortable here, and there will be ample time for me to mention another little matter before you go."
Roger saw that their sinister visitor was only playing with the poor old Doctor, so he blurted out:
"What do you want, Monsieur? Give it a name, or leave us!"
Without a second's warning Fouché sprang from the bed, seized Roger's wrist and twisted it up behind his back, causing him to let out a cry of pain.
"I'll tell him what I want in my own good time, you impudent young puppy," snarled Fouché "Meanwhile, -let's have your name, and hear how you came to join this old codger?"
"My name's Roje Breuc!" gasped Roger. "Let me go! You're hurting!" Then, as he felt the tall man's grip ease a little, he went on: "I come from Alsace. I'm a native of Strasbourg and I ran away from home to seek adventure."-
"You lie!" Fouché snapped. "You're no Frenchman of German stock. You are English. I could tell it by your accent from the first .words you spoke on entering this room. Try again. But I want the truth, now, or it will be the worse for you." And to emphasise his point he gave Roger's arm another savage twist.
"All right, then!" Roger panted, as the pain caused tears to spring to his eyes; "I am English, and my name is Roger Brook. It's true, though, that I ran away from home."
"Where is your home?"
"At Lymington, in Hampshire."
"You mean the little port near Southampton?"
"Yes,"
"You look like a youth of good family. Are you well-born?" "Yes."
"What is the name of your father?"
"Christopher Brook. He is an Admiral in the English Navy." "Is that the truth?" Fouché again exerted his full strength on Roger's arm, forcing him up on tiptoe with it twisted behind him. "Yes, yes!" moaned Roger, "I swear it!"
"And when did you become the apprentice of this old charlatan?" "About eleven weeks ago. I met him soon after I landed at Le Havre."
Fouché suddenly released Roger, flinging him with a contemptuous jerk half across the room and turned to the Doctor, who, during Roger's swift interrogation, had been standing impotently by, wringing his hands.
"Now!" said the man in grey, "I have amused myself long enough. I know how you succeeded in escaping your due deserts in Nantes. You bribed the police-agent with the ten louis that you received in payment for the Ergot of Rye that you sold to the demoiselle Bracieux. 'Tis my policy never to persecute people or make enemies needlessly, and the matter would have ended there, as far as I am concerned, had we not met again to-day and it so chances that the moment finds me in dire need myself. The annual remittances from my plantations in the Indies have failed to reach me this year, and I am committed to heavy expenses in connection with certain experiments in ballooning, in which I am interested. But why should I tell you all this? The fact is that I need money urgently and, after your long summer journey, you must have a nice sum put by. I trust you will see the wisdom of lending me fifty louis without argument."
The Doctor spread out his hands in a pathetic gesture and looked at Roger.
Still nursing his twisted arm, Roger muttered angrily: " 'Tis naught but blackmail!"
Fouché's small mouth broke into a thin smile. "Call it by any name you like, but I need the money. Either I get it or I'll lay an information with the police of Rennes. Monsieur le Docteur will be held upon my affidavit, the warrant will then be forwarded by courier from Nantes, and executed."
Roger saw that there was no way in which they could escape the demand and, with bitter reluctance, began to undo his shirt to get out his money belt. As their funds were all in the one long narrow sack he could not pretend that they were incapable of paying the full sum but in an effort to save part of the amount he announced with such firmness as he could muster: "Half of this belongs to me."
"Does it so?" said Fouche1 quietly. "How much have you there altogether?"
"Fifty-four louis," Roger replied as he took off the belt.
"I'll have the lot, then!" cried Fouché with another sudden display of brutality. "The extra four as a penalty for your impudence."
As he spoke he snatched at the end of the belt that dangled free. But Roger had firm hold of the other end and, springing back, endeavoured to wrench it from his grasp. The thought of all their savings from two long months of toil being taken from them by the unscrupulous amateur crime-investigator lent him strength and he almost jerked the tall young man off his feet.
"Let go!" shouted Fouché, his white face flushing with anger. "For rogues like you what I say is the law! D'you hear me! And learn that I'll take this but as an interim payment. We'll meet again from time to time, never fear. And each time we meet I'll empty your pockets for you, if I've a mind to it. Let go, now, or I'll swear you both into jail this very evening."
It was perhaps the threat to his future earnings, the thought of a never-ending blackmail, that stirred the Doctor into sudden, violent action. As the other two swayed wildly back and forth, struggling for the belt, they had moved round so that Fouché's back was now turned to him. Grabbing up Roger's sheathed sword from a chest nearby he struck the blackmailer a heavy blow on the back of the head with its hilt.
Fouché gasped and fell, half stunned, to the floor. But he still had hold of the belt and the sudden pull upon it dragged Roger down with him.
The Doctor, his watery blue eyes now mad with desperation, raised the sword to strike again. But Fouché was too quick for him. Letting go the belt he rolled over and pulled a small double-barrelled pistol from inside his grey coat. As he cocked it Roger heard the click. Next second there came a blinding flash and a loud report.
Roger staggered to his feet. He saw the Doctor drop the sword; then that one of his eyes had become a hideous red patch. The blood began to trickle from it. He had been shot clean through the head, and with a long, low moan sank slowly to the floor.
Still holding the belt Roger stood for a second, transfixed with horror, staring down at the Doctor's crumpled body. Then he heard Fouché cock the second barrel of his pistol. The sound released a spring in his momentarily petrified brain, and in one bound he reached the door.